


help is on the way

by supernatasha



Category: The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: F/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Prison, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 11:07:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2346236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernatasha/pseuds/supernatasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>You are not Icarus.</em> <br/>At least they remembered him.</p><p>[Character study of Cary in prison. Takes place during 06.01, spoilers accordingly.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	help is on the way

Your hand hurts.

It hurts and you're trying to remember what they told you when you were 17 years old and had dislocated your shoulder at football practice and the coaches were hovering over you telling you to breathe steady and don't worry, help was on the way, even though the bone was jutting out in a way that made you want to vomit and there were white spots in your vision and –

"How did this happen?" the doctor stitching you up asks.

"I fell."

"How did it really happen?" she repeats.

"I fell."

The doctor doesn't seem amused. "Look, if someone has a weapon in this jail, I need to know about it. Better you tell me than let someone else suffer the way you did."

You grit your teeth together, trying to figure out if you should just tell her the truth, all of it every last thing that Bishop doesn't want you to and Alicia wouldn't want you to, and you close your eyes and

_breathe steady, don't worry, help is on the way_

and help is not on the way so you open your eyes and you tell her, "I fell."

You might as well have.

::

The mighty fall. Of course they do.

Icarus flew and he must have smiled up at the sun, thinking he had finally made it up here above the clouds where mortals couldn't touch him, and he flew even higher, and he fell.

You are not Icarus. You're just a kid.

Oh, christ, you're just a kid who wanted to be a lawyer and wear striped ties and stand in court before a judge and talk pretty with a silver tongue and date the investigator with the knee-high leather boots and buy a house with your name on the mortgage and throw it all back in your father's face because he never thought you could do it and

you are not Icarus.

At least they remembered him.

::

You go to the gym a lot. You drink protein shakes and play basketball. You do cardio and you don't smoke and you only get drunk when it's a bad night, which happens but it's rare. You're _healthy._

But compared to the guys in here, you're nothing.

Men with their beer bellies and tattooed bulging biceps and the look in their eyes that you've seen before that says they have nothing left to lose. But you do. You have a _lot_ left to lose. You had a whole life before this. You still want a whole life after it.

Unless this is it.

It could be.

Things like this don't happen to guys like you, right up until they do. 

Rape statistics whirl around in your mind, you remember Jeffrey Grant and what happened to him in prison, the bruises blossoming on his skin, a new one every time there was a subpoena, his eyes begging to get out – you remember what he did at the end of it all. You remember Will.

You try not to.

You think of her instead. You think of her lying on her side, somehow still anxious even in her sleep as if clutching onto invisible secrets, you remember the way her hips rocked against yours, her shuddering sighs when she came, you think of the way you held her down and her protests and –

Perhaps it's best not to think of her either.

Or think at all.

Or open your mouth. Your voice cracks answering any questions. Your throat goes dry at the thought of being spoken to by one of the other inmates.

Most of the time, you're invisible. Eyes dart right through you like you don't exist, like there's nothing but air, and for a moment you have the doubt that maybe you _don't_ exist, that maybe all of this is some horrible nightmare of harsh fluorescent lights and stinking inmate uniforms and there is no drug charge, no Bishop, no Florrick-Agos, no no no

_breathe steady, don't worry, help is on the way_

but it's always on the way and never actually here, but this time, it really is.

::

Help arrives.

She arrives. She is what keeps you going.

When she comes in to see you, with a smile on her face that isn't real (but then again, you have a smile on your face that isn't real) and she cracks a joke that makes you want to cry, but you can't cry in front of her, you're pretty sure you love her, but how do you say something like that when you've done something awful and never even said sorry afterward, you didn't even say sorry, and it's just occurring to you right at this moment as you stare at her sad eyes and dark lipstick that you never even said you were fucking sorry but here she is, already forgiving you when you don't deserve to be.

You regret what you did to her. You wanted to make it right somehow, as if buying her a drink would be enough, as if buying her a drink would get her back into bed with you. But that lingering voice in your head, the one that's telling you that you deserve this, is also telling you there's no way to make it right.

Not anymore.

You take care to keep your hand where she can't see the bandages. There needs to be some sense of normalcy. Laughing is hard, but it gets the sound of the sob out of your throat, so you let it linger in the cold empty air, and the expression on her face tells you she's not buying it but is too polite to mention it.

That's new. She's never been _polite_ before.

It's hard to figure out if this is a mask she's put over her skin for your benefit, or if this is the first time you've ever really seen her face without the mask.

You talk work because it's safe – for you and for her – but every word out of her mouth just reminds you that she's out there breathing in free air and you're in here, barely breathing at all, let alone breathing steady.

Your visit is over before it's even begun, and as you stand, you ask, "Any advice?"

"Yeah, find a friend," her voice is soft, sympathetic.

You've already found a friend, and they're leading you away from her in handcuffs.


End file.
